Cope
by Shadowflame611
Summary: Working Title: Its hard to deal with things when they have already gotten out of hand. However, its even harder to carry the burden for all- alone.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Hello, all!_

_I had posted a bit of a preview to this story on the Stealthy Stories website a while ago. Sitting at my computer, I began to (quite randomly) think about my fanfiction, and how much I missed my muses. :p_

_Anyway, long story short I plugged in my thumb drive, found this baby, and read it -through… and then I got this urge to post it. Oo I did a few cleanups on parts where I knew improvement was a must, and here it is, in all of it's not-so-glorious glory. :p_

_I don't expect much traffic here, especially since I haven't been around in, you know, forever and a half. But hey, I'm alive and I'm still in to this stuff… I just can't get to it at this point of my life, especially with my precarious schedule of school/work._

_Sorry for not being around somuch, sorry if the story stinks on ice, and sorry if you have no idea if I'm talking about. :p_

_Quickly, I'd like to say that this story was originally meant as a followup of 'Stabbed,' but I suppose it can stand on its own. Just to let everyone know, __**the story takes off at a point where certain characters are dead. **__Oh, and because its me and I'm sick, __**there is the chance of future character death. **__So, if you're totally against that kind of thing, here is your warning.I'm not saying it will happen—I'm saying its possible._

_The story if from Mike's POV. I sometimes use weird grammar/wording, and that's intentional. Also, his thoughts jump around. It may be a bit too much, and if it really bothers you, let me know… there is an infinite amount of space for improvement, here. ___

_That being said, __**I do not own the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles or any related characters. I'm just hopelessly obsessed with them and like to spend my free time writing about them.**_

_**Also, any tidbits used that aren't mine will be accredited to the appropriate person at the end of each corresponding chapter.**_

_So, yeah. Here goes:_

* * *

_**Chapter 1: **_

_**Between the idea  
And the reality  
Between the motion  
And the act  
Falls the shadow**_

_**-T.S. Eliot**_

_-Dated November the twenty seventh, two thousand and seven. Day three hundred and three since I've woken up… _

_I don't know how long I had been standing there, in the doorway of the lab. Probably too long. Looking back, I think I must have zoned out or something... _

_Those damn vials…_

_I often find myself wondering how they did it. How they managed to deal with us for so long; to go through every day listening to our constant whining. I always knew Splinter and Leo were strong. But now, after I've had a taste of what they went through, I understand the meaning of ignorance. I know why Leo used to tell me I wouldn't understand—and why he used all of his power to keep that understanding from me._

_Really, its not like I ever challenged the fact that my brother and father were strong individuals... I just never really sat down and thought about it. I guess that, being the dumb sonnavabitch I was, it all just sailed over my head, escaping my attention along with everything else of real importance._

_Without the support of my deceased elders, the bond that I share with my remaining family members has been wilting, dying. And, since I've woken up from my nightmarish daze, I've been struggling to regain it, to make things better. But it's hard to repair the damage that has taken place after such a long absence. Especially when your brothers have become so used to their daily routines (if they even care to distinguish between night and day) that they have become dependent on what little relief can be gained by them._

_Yeah, "relief." If you could call it that. _

_Unfortunately, I'm terrified that what I can provide isn't enough. By day, I do what I must to keep things in line. At night, I pray to my departed family members for some sort of assistance- __anything __that will help. They don't answer. I pray to God. He doesn't answer, either. Left with no other mystical power, I plead my remaining brothers to at least __**try**__..__. and they turn a deaf ear._

_It's hard not to wonder if my efforts are useless; if my realization came too late and our bond is damaged beyond repair. It seems so easy to slip back into the daze that I was in, to leave my brothers to their own grief as I myself sit in my room, eyes tracing pictures in the dried plaster of my wall as I wonder why._

_But I've come to a realization. I've been taught better than to succumb to that kind of desire. No, that would be the easy path- Splinter always stressed that we should take the harder one. Told us that doing so would yield the kind of result that is truly deserved. _

_Maybe it's just karma or something, but I've yet to prove that. Or maybe I just don't deserve it; nope, no more functional family for Mikey._

_That won't stop me from trying. Pulling the whole harder path thing out of the equation, I've still got the most important lesson of all to remember- family first._

_Family __**always**__._

* * *

"Donnie," I hear my own tired, unconvincing voice say for about the millionth time, "it's time to call it a night."

He doesn't answer me. Not that I could be as hopeful as to expect him to. Though a large chunk of me wants my warm, caring brother back, I know that I'm not that lucky. Not that blessed.

I sigh, knowing what is to come: a replay of what has happened in this room every night for the past several months. The event has become a regular part of our day; one of those painful things that you don't exactly look forward to and only go about because it's necessary. Like trying to take a piss when you've got kidney stones.

I walk fully into the lab now, shutting the door behind me lest he decide to make a run for it. Upon hearing me enter, my brother tenses, but doesn't turn to face me. He continues his work as though I am not there, drawn, bloodshot eyes glued to the computer monitor as his fingers dance to a rapid, mechanical beat over the keyboard.

I don't approach him yet, leaning my shell against the door and trying to ignore the left side of the room, which for the past three months has been the very base of my nightmares. For Leo's sake I sometimes wonder if I should wander over and... I don't know. Pay my respects? But there's something foreboding and wrong about those test tubes and freezers, and what their contents used to be a part of. To be frank, it disgusts me. I don't understand how Donnie can work with the stuff so casually, let alone spend close to all of his time in this pit.

Realizing that I had zoned out again, I force my focus away from the gruesome sight to the left, ignoring the faint yet nauseating scent of meat. I know this won't end well, but I am going to try to do this while both causing and receiving as little bruising as possible. It needs to be done. It's for his own good. If Donatello no longer has the will to live, then I'll just have to lend him some of my own.

"You know where this is going, Don," I try to reason, striving to keep my voice calm, "Do you really want to end up fighting again? You know who wins every night... start to see a pattern yet?"

Whether by my imagination or not, I see his fingers falter slightly in their work. Had the situation been lighter, I might have been amazed by the fact that the backspace key seemed to be growing cobwebs as he continued his typing without fault. I wait a few moments for the verbal response that I know is not coming, my patience eroding beneath the tidal waves of tension in the room. I can feel the hurt and frustration rising in my chest, flooding my vocal cords in an attempt to take control. I manage to swallow most of it.

For a fleeting moment I consider bashing his computer in. However, I knew that to destroy his computer would be a futile attempt at making him stop in his work. The need to fix the damn thing would only give him something else to obsess over.

He doesn't want to be away from his work. I respect that. I'll go as far to say that I _understand _that. But I act for his health, physically. Emotionally and mentally... well, I know for a fact that he dives head first into this stuff to get away, to keep his mind off of the shit that we've been pulled through. It has become his sanctuary, his only method of relieving the pain. And though what he does can be considered a more subtle way to cause self-harm, as the days drone on it becomes more and more apparent that hunger and sleep deprivation works its black magic upon his body as effectively as loss of blood or drugs would.

For a few long moments I stare at the back of his bald green head, reflecting. No amount of vocal counseling on my part can help ease the grief and self-blame that my brother feels at the loss of our two family members, namely Leonardo. I know from experience that the only person that Don will speak to is Raph, and _that _is something that is better off avoided. I want my brothers to finally wake up and smell the coffee, not kill each other.

I finally began to move toward him, my stride expressing much more confidence than I felt. Donnie usually has a trick or two up his sleeve... just a few days ago his newest tactic was to turn on me as I approached and inject a tranquilizer into my arm. I had woken up a few hours later, sprawled out on the cold cement floor of the lab, too weak to fight with Don to go to bed.

He had won that round... and I am bent upon not letting him win again.

I grab the back of the old computer chair, forcefully yanking it back. Donatello grips the sides of his desk, and the entire unit, computers and books and files included, grinds against the cement flooring. He digs his heels into the floor as he struggles to keep himself in place, and with a final yank I pull the chair out from underneath him. He somehow maintains his balance and manages not to fall on his tail, still gripping onto his desk.

One of my arms goes around his waist, while the other reaches forward to try to unclasp his left hand. Three fingers and a bloody lip later, I have his arm pinned against his side while I struggle to unclamp the other hand.

It's pathetic, really, how he still manages to give me a hard time, even though I'm the one with the muscle mass.

I manage to drag him across the lab, my arms clamped firmly around his waist and arms, his calloused heels making odd scraping noises against the floor as he attempts to lock his legs and stop me. With my hands not free to open the door the old fashioned way, I rear back and kick it open, then continue across the living area of the lair.

Raph is on the couch, watching the televisions. I can see him, and he can hear us. But he doesn't make any move to help, only takes a long drag from a half-finished bottle of beer, his butt seemingly Velcroed to the couch. Had I not known that his senses were sharpened by his training (though they were probably diluted by the alcohol), I would have thought that he didn't know that we were there. Still, in our struggle the two of us weren't exactly being stealthy. One could be half deaf and still hear us.

I don't ask my red-masked brother for help. I had long ago given up on calling out to him, only to be slammed in the face. Besides, I've proven that I can get Donnie up to his room. It just takes a little effort.

As we neared the fire escape, Don gave up on struggling against me. Instead he slumped in my grasp, a dead weight, and turned his head and bit hard into the flesh of my vulnerable arm.

Drawing in a sharp breath at the pain, I focus my eyes on my destination as we make it halfway up the fire escape. Realizing that biting me had little effect, Don changes tactics. He releases me from his jaw, blood staining the pearly whiteness of his teeth, then suddenly and unexpectedly throws his weight _down the stairs_.

Taken off guard by his new tactic, I risk unclamping one of my arms from around his torso in order to grab hold of the railing. He growls at his failure and I continue, pulling the two of us up, stair by stair.

As we near his bedroom, he begins to struggle against me again, frantic, breaths coming out in short half-sobs. In his desperation he even attempts to throw me off using a few maneuvers that Master Splinter taught us, but unfortunately for him I was prepared to counter his weak, futile efforts and pull him to the entrance of his room. With great effort I managed to yank the door open, revealing the dimly-lit bedroom, and with a growl I gathered my strength for the Grand Finale of throwing him into the darkness.

"Mikey!" He begs suddenly, his voice setting off alarm bells within me. "Don't... no..." I pause, and in response he calms considerably. It was the first time that he had spoken to me in weeks. After moment of quiet, he remembers his role in the struggle, and makes an attempt at pulling out of my slackened grasp.

I regain control over my bleeding heart and shove him forcefully into his room, slamming the door before he had a chance to get up and make a run for it. With trembling fingers, I activate the first padlock, then the second, then the third before leaning up against the door, panting and trembling with more than exhaustion.

From the other side of the door, I hear his sobs deepen, followed by loud crashing noises as he slams himself against things, scattering and knocking down the furniture, before finally falling to what I suspect to be the floor with a muffled _thump _in a tired and grief-torn heap. I close my eyes to the noises that emit from behind the closed door, unable to block it out, barely able to cope with it.

I don't know why I stand here every night, listening to him as he slowly settles down. Maybe its to punish myself. Maybe its because I fear that he will try to get out-- or worse, hurt himself now that he is left with no computer to dull his razor-sharp emotions.

However, thanks to my scouring of his room every night before I fetch him for bed, I know that there's not much he can do to hurt himself, unless he wants to suffocate under the pillows or something.

Then again, I don't worry about him going _that _far; not while he has a job to finish in that lab. Not when he has yet to find a cure for the poison that killed our brother.

Letting out a breath that I didn't know I was holding, I expand my range of hearing outward to the rest of the lair. The sound of the entertainment system mingles with Don's ragged breathing. Everything else is silent.

...What the hell had happened to make our lives change so drastically? Ultimately, it had been Leo's death. His poisoning. Master Splinter's passing had severely weakened our bonds, devastated us, but the death of the leader had been the final blow.

I don't glance to the left at Leo's room as I make my way to my own. I know it's there; I can feel it behind me, radiating an eerie energy that makes the back of my head and neck tingle. Instead, I look down into the living area. Raphael is gone, the only traces his presence being the empty beer bottles and the slight impression of his body on the old, worn couch. It would take a good half hour for the cushions to puff back up, and even less for the heat of his body to fade.

I walk into my room without bothering to turn on the light, being familiar enough with my surroundings without the aid of sight. My bed is situated against the back wall, it's dented and scratched headboard tucked in the back corner. That is where I go and sit, bringing my knees to my chest and hugging myself tightly.

As quietly as I can, I bow my head and, with my brother's sobs still ringing in my ears, mourn the loss of my family.

* * *

poem tidbit from T.S. Eliot's _The Hollow Men_


	2. Chapter 2

This was posted as a kind of spoiler to this story on another site. I'll add it as a second chapter here.

Don't own the TMNT.

Chapter 2

(Date unspecified)

_"Pain, that which rises and falls like the tides of the ocean, erodes just the same."_

I woke up yesterday.

Not in the sense that one would think; I suppose I had been "awake" for a majority of the time that I was under. What I really mean is, up until very recently I seemed to have undergone a period where I was mentally unaware of everything around me.

As a result, I do not have any recollections as to what happened to me physically during that time, but I do remember thinking. But my memories are such a jumbled mess, I can't remember anything specific… That doesn't matter. The gist of it all is still there.

More on that in a moment.

Apparently, I haven't eaten too much. I can hardly hold my pencil, and reaching for this notebook had been an almost impossible feat. But here I am, balancing it in my lap, and since I can't do much else, I have decided to write. To wait until someone comes.

If I'm going to be thinking these thoughts, I might as well be writing them down. Especially while I'm coherent enough to do such a thing. Its remarkable how even in my weakened state words keep coming to me with such clarity.

Now, there are several reasons for this. Among them is the possibility that when someone does show up, then they won't make it in time to save me.

I say "does" with absolute certainty. Someone, at some point, has to come. Months from now, years… its only a matter of time. And it doesn't necessarily have to be someone I'm familiar or friendly with; it could very easily be a human (or group of humans) associated with… I donno, some construction project. Though the little space that we've called home has been labeled abandoned, the blueprints still have to exist somewhere… the city might need the space some day, for some future project or another.

Of course, I hope that they make it in time. Someone friendly; someone I know. But the possibility of that is... I don't know what's going on in the world behind my closed door; I don't know if anyone in my family is still alive. I'm barely with it myself.

Which is what motivates me to write as I am now. If I am going to die, I want this notebook and all that is written in it found with my remains. I want there to be a primary account on how much we've suffered all these years, following the events that lead right up until now, in what could be my final thoughts.

Those who don't know me, or us, they need to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that we were thinking, feeling, _sentient_ beings. That can probably be collected from the technology found within the rest of the lair, but hey… just because we could build doesn't necessarily mean that the humans would recognize our ability _feel_, to be human. I mean, if there's anyone on this planet who knows just how unjust humans can be when perceiving those who are different from them as anything but animals, its us. We. Me.

Those who do know me, and loved me, well… you know who you are. I'm thinking of you. And I love you.

Don't dwell on me. We've all seen how much damage that can do.

According to this notebook, which I have adopted as one of my journals (the reader, having come thus far listening to my ramblings must already be aware of the others that precede this one... or perhaps I'll just leave it open to this page) I haven't written since April 18th, 2007. I only have to read the first word – "Leo" – to know what it's about. To remember that I had made an attempt at translating my immeasurable grief into words.

I don't want to read it; no, not yet.

I don't want to go back to sleep.

I wonder… how the hell am I still alive? Maybe I did somehow manage to stand up, to go back and forth between the kitchen and my room to get whatever I needed. Then again… maybe someone has been taking care of me? I haven't seen my brothers at all, and when I think about it I'm not all that surprised.

If I had been selfish enough to sit here and wallow in my own grievous thoughts for months on end, then how could I expect any different from them? I remember how Raph and Don were before I fell into my pit. Having been left to my thoughts for the past twenty-four hours, I am familiar with memories of their isolation, and their blunt refusal to allow anyone to help them.

Each blamed himself. I remember that.

Which, I must confess, scares the living shit out of me. If what I had experienced had been enough for me to do what I've done to myself, then what about them? How harsh would they be with themselves? Perhaps I had been conscious enough of them to make sure that they met the mundane requirements of life… heh. Looking down at my horrifically starved body I am inclined to think otherwise.

What if I'm the only one left? I have to wait, because I have no other way to know.

…And I've definitely covered this before. In my defense, its been hours since I first put the pen point down. I know that for sure because of the digital clock that rests on the night stand next to me; it feels almost as though no time has passed at all. I keep zoning out. One thought leads to another, and another, until everything is a confusing mash of colors and space that should be occupied by memories and grief.

I've waited to die before. Every time I've been in battle, I was always constantly aware of the fact that I could be carried away from the scene in a coffin. Or some type of giant test tube thingy. Either way, I've thought it just as I was being attacked by someone- or something, and I've struck back with all my might, desperately trying to keep the candle lit.

The situation I'm in now, though, is different. There's nothing like sitting in bed-_ alone_- knowing that the solution to whatever's ailing you is within a fifty foot radius, and waiting to pass away. Hungry, thirsty, but I can't find it in me to stand. Exhausted, but too afraid to sleep.

And you know what else? Funny thing- death was once an alien concept to me. You might have already gathered that from reading everything in this notebook that came before this entry, and yet maybe you haven't. Even while facing death, I've always felt invincible, in a way. I've heard of it, but it never really effected me. Yes, Yoshi died. That's why I'm a ninja. But I'm talking about all the people I knew and were close with. We faced death countless times, but never actually succumbed to the force; it just hung over our heads, heavy, threatening to break loose and drop down and kill us all.

Splinter and Leo changed that, of course. But, like I said above, you could've read about that. You already know that for sure. You know that I've felt almost pushed off to the side in all the grief that's been going on; in Raph and Don's reactions to our loss.

You remember their fights, and their resulting refusal to acknowledge each other. Leo died, and Raph was (finally) there for him during his last moments. Don had wanted to be there, and would have been if April hadn't insisted on the watchers taking shifts. He felt he should have been there. Much more so than the "selfish" Raphael, who after Splinter died hadn't been paying any attention to anything of importance as far as the good will of the family was concerned.

I saw all of this. And yet it amazes me that I did nothing. Looking back, I'm disgusted by my own display of stubborn self-pity.


End file.
